


hey, i just met you/and this is crazy

by wincechesters



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bars and Pubs, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-05
Updated: 2018-09-05
Packaged: 2019-07-07 03:27:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15899952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wincechesters/pseuds/wincechesters
Summary: “So you don’t actually want my number.” Shiro says, trying to take stock of what is frankly, too confusing of a situation for the Friday of the longest week in recorded history.The guy raises a hand to ruffle it through the hair at the back of his head, and his scowl deepens along with his flush as he directs his gaze to the scarred corner of Shiro’s table. “Didn’t say that.”-----A Sheith ‘hey i’m sorry to bother you but i’m trying to convince my friends i’m a sex god so can you please write a fake number on this napkin for me real quick’ au





	hey, i just met you/and this is crazy

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write something long and angsty with lots of thoughts and feelings, but that wasn’t working so please accept this dorky AU instead. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ Inspired by [this post](http://gerardwaysshorts.co.vu/post/109435037447/what-about-a-hey-im-sorry-to-bother-you-but-im). 
> 
> Thanks as always to my bestest Meg for beta <3

“Uh, hey.” 

The words filter out of the din of the bar, tugging Shiro’s shoulders up around his ears. He’s capital-T Tired, and he can’t help the way his mouth tightens before he can force it into something resembling a polite smile. He’s just come off the longest day―the longest _week_ ―in recent memory. His eyes hurt, his head hurts, his back hurts, even his _ass_ hurts, and his only consolation on this dumpster fire of a day is the beer mug currently chilling the metal of his prosthetic right hand where it curves around the glass. The last thing he wants is to have to fend off some no-doubt drunk suitor when all he wants to do is chug his beer and pour himself into a cab and subsequently into the waiting arms of his king-sized pillow top.

“Hi,” he manages half-heartedly, yanking his eyes forlornly away from his half-drunk beer to face the stranger standing awkwardly at the end of his table. “Listen, I’m really sorry, but I’m not really looking for-”

“It’s okay,” the guy cuts in hastily. “I’m really not a creep. I just.” He sighs, and he scuffs one booted foot against the dirty floor of the bar as his gaze ticks down. His hair is kind of long and unruly, and a thick swathe of it flops over the bridge of his nose when he moves. “This is stupid. But the guys I came here with said I couldn’t do it.” His eyes meet Shiro’s for the first time and they’re wide and apologetic in the dim light of the bar, framed by a fan of dark lashes.

He flicks his head, directing Shiro’s gaze over his left shoulder, and Shiro notices with mixed amusement and bafflement the two guys seated at a booth across from his: one skinny with a truly unfortunate haircut; the other sturdily built with a headband wrapped around his forehead. The skinny one is grinning like it’s his birthday and Christmas all rolled into one, and he’s practically falling out of his seat with the way he’s leaning over the table to watch the spectacle unfolding before him.

Shiro blinks back to the man in front of him, noticing for the first time the flush that spreads across the guy’s cheeks. He doesn’t fail to also notice that it’s actually kind of cute - he’s but a simple man, and he’s tired, not dead. “They said you couldn’t do what?”

A heavy sigh. “Look, I don’t want to bother you any more than I already have. Can you just, like, write a fake number on a napkin for me so I can prove to Lance I’m not a total loser, and I can let you get back to your evening?”

Shiro frowns, his eyebrows knitting together. The guy certainly looks uncomfortable, his gaze defiant through the fall of his hair and his hands clenched into fists inside fingerless gloves. He looks like he wants to disappear into the popped collar of his leather jacket. Not drunk then, and obviously totally oblivious to his own attractiveness.

“So you don’t actually want my number.” Shiro says, trying to take stock of what is frankly, too confusing of a situation for the Friday of the longest week in recorded history.

The guy raises a hand to ruffle it through the hair at the back of his head and his scowl deepens along with his flush as he directs his gaze to the scarred corner of Shiro’s table. “Didn’t say that,” he mumbles finally, and Shiro has to fight back the urge to shake his head to clear it.

“So you _do_ want my number.”

That finally draws the guy’s gaze back up to Shiro’s. His eyes widen, and damn, they really are pretty. The corner of his mouth curls up slowly into what could almost be called a smile. “Well, I definitely wouldn’t say no if you were up to sharing.”

Shiro finds himself grinning and he untangles his hand from the beer to offer a handshake. “Shiro.”

The guy is definitely smiling now as he reaches to clasp Shiro’s hand in a firm grip without a single qualm about the prosthetic. “Keith.”

“Nice to meet you, Keith.”

“You too.” His gaze flicks to Shiro’s beer, more than half-empty, now. “Hey, uh. You want another one of those?”

Shiro arches one brow. “Why? You offering?”

Keith laughs, and oh. _Oh_ , it’s a nice sound. “Yeah. That’s how these things are supposed to go, right?”

“You’re asking me?”

“Yeah?” Keith cocks his head. “I really don’t do this often, Shiro. Obviously.”

Shiro contemplates the beer in front of him. He was only planning on having one tonight―just a little something to keep him out and upright for a while longer before he collapses into bed for the fifth straight night in a row. But Keith is kind of ridiculously hot, now that Shiro lets himself notice, and also adorable in a grumpy, flustered kind of way. Looking over him and the stretch of his t-shirt over a toned chest, the way his jacket skims the curve of a slim waist, Shiro finds he doesn’t feel tired at all any more.

“I can’t stay too much longer,” he says, more than a little regretfully. “But sure, another beer sounds great.”

He watches Keith walk away―he’s only human, and those legs are sin incarnate all wrapped up in black skinny jeans―and he grins when Keith makes his way back over with two more beers, hesitating for only a moment before he slips into the seat opposite Shiro and slides a full glass across to him.

“Cheers,” Shiro says before he raises the glass to his lips. He thinks he notices Keith’s eyes on his mouth as he does, though he hides the expression quickly behind his own beer.

“So how did it go exactly?” Shiro asks. “Your friends picked the first guy they saw and dared you to come talk to me?”

Keith rolls his eyes, but the corners of his mouth are still turned up. “No they, uh. They might have noticed I was―looking at you. Like, a lot.”

“You were?” Shiro glances down at himself, surprised. He’d tossed his suit jacket on the seat beside him along with his tie, and his button-down is wrinkled and he thinks there might be a coffee stain about halfway down the left side. “ _Why?”_

“‘Why?’” Keith parrots, astounded. His eyes do a very obvious pass, down then up, over Shiro. It’s the opposite of lascivious, but Shiro still feels warm like the gaze is a physical touch―a very welcome one. “Have you _seen_ you?”

It’s Shiro’s turn to look away, and he can feel the heat spreading up his neck into his ears and cheeks. But he can’t help the smile he turns back towards Keith. “Really?”

Keith scoffs. “Yeah, really. You’re, like. Really, really hot.”

“Look who’s talking,” Shiro shoots back, and Keith looks pleased under that unruly hair as he hides his smile behind his beer.

“You were really going to take a fake number and that was it?”

“Yeah.” Keith licks beer foam from his lips and Shiro can’t help but follow the pink slide of his tongue. “Didn’t think I actually had a chance with you. But once Lance gets on something he doesn’t let up and there was _no way_ I was gonna let Lance win this one.”

Shiro laughs. “Well you’ll have to thank Lance for me.” He slides his glass across the table to clink it gently against Keith’s. “I’m glad you came over.”

Keith glances up on automatic, and his broad smile flickers as something catches his eye. “Oh shit,” he mumbles, and takes a long, fortifying draw of his beer. “Looks like you can tell him yourself.”

Shiro barely has time to open his mouth in confusion before a stranger is sidling up to his table for the second time that night. “Hey, Lovebirds,” the guy―Lance―drawls, and the dangerous look in his eyes and his toothy smirk says that he thinks he’s about to deal a killing blow to Keith’s game. “Keith, I just wanted to remind you that it’s rude to ditch your friends, even if you have a great big, messy crush on the Daddy across the bar. You know what they say: Bros before ho-”

Keith’s leg flashes out from under the table, almost quicker than Shiro’s tired eyes can follow, the toe of his boot connecting with Lance’s shin. Lance howls, and he aims a punch back at Keith that Keith dodges easily.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Lance says, when he’s recovered. “If you’re done with this pathetic attempt at flirting, buddy, I think you better admit defeat and get back to your friends. You know, the ones you came here for? Pidge and Allura just showed up and they want a rematch at the pool tables.”

“You’re an idiot,” Keith scoffs in Lance’s direction, but he turns to Shiro with apology in his eyes. “But I guess I should probably get back.”

Lance crosses his arms across his chest with a smug grin―he clearly thinks he’s won. Keith rolls his eyes, but Shiro is already digging in his discarded jacket’s pocket for a pen. He scrawls his number on an unused napkin, sliding it across to Keith.

“It’s my real number,” he says, only half for Lance’s benefit, and his eyes are on Keith’s. Keith’s mouth curls back into that smile―sweet, but there’s something else there, something hot that reaches down into Shiro’s gut and _tugs_. “Text me and I’ll prove it.”

Keith grabs the napkin, his grin turning triumphant. “I will,” he promises, and he unfolds himself from the booth, making to follow a disgruntled Lance, who is now walking with an overdramatic limp on his way back to their table. (“You think this is bad, you should see the other guy!” Lance says loudly as he slides in next to a pretty, dark-skinned woman with white hair who has recently joined their party.)

Shiro stands too, extending a hand for a shake. Keith accepts it, and there’s a moment where they’re just standing there, holding hands like a couple of dweebs before something in Keith’s face changes, and he’s leaning into Shiro, pushing up on his toes. Shiro’s breath catches in his throat, a flash of warmth filling his abdomen, and Keith’s lips brush against Shiro’s in what is unmistakably a kiss.

Shiro’s too tired, too shocked to respond right away, but when he does it’s almost too eager. He wraps his free hand around Keith’s waist (taut and slender as he imagined, wow) and deepens the kiss, and when Keith laughs, it’s right into Shiro’s mouth.

“Thanks for your number,” Keith says when he pulls back, eyes bright and his smile devious.

“Thanks for the beer,” Shiro chokes out. Keith shoots him a salute before finally dragging himself away, and Shiro can’t help but watch Keith saunter all the way back to the booth. He finishes his beer in a couple of quick drags, feeling suddenly, inexplicably parched. He can’t help but think, though, feeling Keith’s eyes on him as he makes his way from the bar to the street to hail a cab, that his week is really looking up.

 *****

Ten minutes later, on the cab ride home and surrounded by the smell of old cigarettes and sadness, he gets three messages in quick succession from Keith.

_hey it’s keith from the bar._

_lance doesn’t believe you gave me your real number._

_kinda not sure I believe it myself tbh._

Shiro smiles as he replies, _Hey, Keith from the bar. It’s Shiro._ On a whim, he attaches a recent selfie, which just happened to have been taken at the gym. In it his hair is sweaty and he’s wearing a tank top that clings more than a little, because if Keith likes how he looks, Shiro’s not above working whatever advantage he’s got. _Believe me now?_

He chuckles when Keith’s reply is just a string of fire emojis. He doesn’t notice the quizzical look the cab driver shoots him through the rearview mirror, his eyes glued to his phone as he taps out another message. _What are you doing tomorrow?_ he asks. It’s perhaps a little ill-advised―isn’t there some kind of rule about three days, or something?―but he hits send anyway. If it goes south, he can blame his wrung-out, exhausted, Keith-addled brain.

His phone pings again almost immediately. _damn, I really hope something with you._

 _Good,_ Shiro texts back. _How do you feel about Japanese food?_

_you cooking for me?_

_Oh hell, no. I know a great place, though. I’m a terrible cook; might make you change your mind about me if I did try it._

His phone is silent for a few minutes, but it pings just as he’s letting himself into his apartment. He waits to check the message until he’s safely ensconced in his bed, his exhaustion finally starting to hit him.

 _doubt it_ , Keith’s message says, and just as Shiro reaches to turn out the light, a smile on his face, another message comes in that reads only: _x._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I’m a brand new resident of Sheith Hell post the gay!Shiro reveal; pls come yell at me on twitter @maccachino about this fucking great show and how Keith and Shiro are in undying, everlasting love xoxo


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